


deliquesce

by ragefear



Category: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Gender Identity, I Wrote This For Me, Implied Death, and this is them, if you enjoy it, just like............. a lot of feelings, nge made me feel feelings, then that's great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24518980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragefear/pseuds/ragefear
Summary: the end of the world is a pretty good time to figure yourself out, you think
Kudos: 4





	deliquesce

**Author's Note:**

> deliquesce, v. to become liquid, particularly though decomposition

I do not remember my first fight in my Eva.

I remember the alien shape of the Angel, its flat eyes, its body glowing, undulating, shifting. I remember waking up in a hospital bed, my own long hair twisted around my neck.

I get a haircut the first day I get out.

Higher synchro, the whitecoats say. Her synchro is up by a point and a half, she's improving. My Japanese is weak and so is their English, but their faces are masks of reassurance. 

My second angel is another horror, no eyes this time, but an uncanny human shape in a sickly shade of dark green. We tear into each other and I can feel-without-feeling as nebulous hands plunge into my armoured shoulder. My prog knife splits its core. I stumble my Eva back to base, and there is a small party. Someone hands me a can, and I drink it. 

I get a piercing to celebrate.

It becomes a tradition. Each Angel slain, another needle through my ear. Lobes first. Then doubles, then an industrial on one side. Helix on the other. They heal faster than they're supposed to, but one is never done before the next one is clipped into place. Some days I daydream about delicate things, fine chains threading through and around, or something in gold. But it's all implant-grade titanium until they heal properly.

The fifth angel is almost routine, which is what unnerves me the most. They shift and change between each attack, so why is this one so similar? But I finish it off, clawing through its AT field with both hands, digging fingers into its core, feeling it crack and splinter, hearing the ringing in my ears, louder, louder--

"Call me Rae," I manage to say, in halting, stuttering Japanese, the next time I see the whitecoats. "Ore-wa..."

The syllables feel strange in my mouth, but they also feel right in a way I cannot explain. One of the whitecoats frowns and opens her mouth to correct me, but then another, whose hair is dark, elbows her, and says something too fast for me to understand. The blonde's eyebrows lift, briefly, and then her face returns to that placating mask. 

My plug suit begins to feel uncomfortable. It is tight and form-fitting and pale. One night, I sneak into a locker room and find a spare. A boy's suit. When I twist the airlock the dark fabric cinches around my chest, and things feel right. Nobody questions me as my synchro rates climb higher, ever higher.

Is this who you are? My Eva challenges me with this question, louder with each new entry. My answer gets clearer every time, with each victory my sense of self solidifies. This is who I am. My hands were meant for this task, for ripping and tearing and wounding. Yes, this is what I was born to do. The role the world set out for me. I stand over another fallen angel, roaring, my Eva's voice rising with mine. Rising as mine.

They don't let me in my Eva for a month. Something about contamination, about corruption, and the anger I feel is unlike anything else I have ever felt. It is more real, more visceral, more _me_ than I have ever been. I sit on the narrow gangway in front of my powerless Eva, holding my pencil far too hard as I press dark lines into my sketchbook. Its curves and angles are uncanny, and do not commit easily to paper. But I sit nonetheless, until my dark and smudged handiwork becomes recognizable.

Is this who you are?

When the next angel comes to call they tell me I'm grounded, but they can't stop me. Not now that I've tasted blood, tasted power. They can't stop me now that I know they need me.

Is that a smile or a snarl? 

They say containment is broken--that contamination is taking over. I take a breath, feeling more right than I ever have as my armor is torn away, but the angel is dead at my feet. I am free. I am myself, finally, finally, finally, finally--

**Author's Note:**

> once again, nge just gave me a lot of feelings, and i had to put them somewhere. "ore-" is a masculine japanese pronoun.


End file.
